Billy Collins

Shoveling Snow With Buddha - Poem by Billy Collins

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wokyou would never see him doing such a thing,tossing the dry snow over a mountainof his bare, round shoulder,his hair tied in a knot,a model of concentration.

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the wordfor what he does, or does not do.

Even the season is wrong for him.In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid? Is this not implied by his serene expression,that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?

But here we are, working our way down the driveway,one shovelful at a time.We toss the light powder into the clear air.We feel the cold mist on our faces.And with every heave we disappearand become lost to each otherin these sudden clouds of our own making,these fountain-bursts of snow.

This is so much better than a sermon in church,I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.This is the true religion, the religion of snow,and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,I say, but he is too busy to hear me.

He has thrown himself into shoveling snowas if it were the purpose of existence,as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear drivewayyou could back the car down easilyand drive off into the vanities of the worldwith a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.

All morning long we work side by side,me with my commentaryand he inside his generous pocket of silence,until the hour is nearly noonand the snow is piled high all around us; then, I hear him speak.

After this, he asks,can we go inside and play cards?

Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milkand bring cups of hot chocolate to the tablewhile you shuffle the deck.and our boots stand dripping by the door.

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyesand leaning for a moment on his shovelbefore he drives the thin blade againdeep into the glittering white snow.

Yeats would not have been so stupid as to put such a fine image in the midst of pablum like this. You really cannot think this is poetry, can you? This easy, prose-quality, Hallmark rubbish? As E. Berdovsky says so well, From mawkish to sentimental to pseudo-profound! ! ! ! !